


with the darkness cometing down (i could use your saving now)

by orphan_account



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, bc why not????, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>grant knows when he decided to become a vigilante he revoked his right to visit hospitals. so, now he's left on some stranger's balcony trying to come up with a way to get himself some help.</p><p>;;</p><p>or the one where grant's sort of a superhero that he needs a little medical attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with the darkness cometing down (i could use your saving now)

**Author's Note:**

> because apparently all i'm good at writing are nonsensical au's.
> 
> title from jack's mannequin's "meet me at my window".

It isn't often that Grant will admit when he needs help but as soon as he hits the balcony - and by association all of the plants and furniture on said balcony - he knows he could probably use a little assistance.

The only problem is he can't exactly get any assistance.

Not easily, at least.

Grant knows when he decided to become a vigilante - although he prefers the term 'self-appointed protector' - he revoked his right to visit hospitals. He can't exactly walk into the emergency room with all of the injuries he's accumulated tonight and not expect them to ask questions. Plus he's certain if he limps in, tac gear shredded ( _fucking_ Deathlok), face cut up and caked in blood - not to mention the half-mask he wears - the police will most definitely be called. And after going a few rounds with Deathlok, the last thing Grant needs is to be arrested.

Therefore, hospitals are out of the question.

So, now he's left on some stranger's balcony trying to come up with a way to get himself some help.

Well, actually. First things first. He needs to get _off_ of this stranger's balcony. He's positive having an elderly woman discover a bloody guy in a mask laid out on top of her crushed petunias will lead to his arrest, too.

He's in the middle of struggling to get to his feet - oh yeah, he's got a few cracked ribs for sure - when he hears the balcony door slide open.

He curses under his breath and manages to push himself up on his elbows. "Don't scream, please." He says, ducking his head away from whomever just stepped out to find him. He's wearing a mask that conceals the top half of his face, but you really can never be too careful.

"Don't worry, I wasn't going to." Grant discerns a lot from the response. Whoever he's speaking to is young, female and British. She also doesn't sound the least bit frightened, which, truthfully, is a bit odd. "Are you okay?"

He hears her step closer to him and he holds up his hand to stop her. "It's nothing you can help me with, really."

Despite his gesture, she approaches him anyway. She kneels down in front of him and grabs his face in her hands, presumably to get a look at the deep cut along his jawline.

Well, this girl certainly is forward.

"I could stitch this up for you if you'd like." She says as she runs delicate fingers over his face all while never once making a move to remove his mask. "Plus I've got some pretty good pain medicine too if you need it."

Grant would be stupid not to be suspicious of this stranger's kindness. A normal person would find a bleeding masked man and call the cops. She's offering to patch him up and give him meds.

He knows he's a little crazy for doing this whole vigilante thing but this girl has to be downright insane.

"How about I skip the meds? But, I’ll take you up on the stitches,“ he says with a labored breath. "That is if you can help get me up. I think a few of my ribs are cracked."

She clicks her tongue and slowly (bless her) places one of his arms around her shoulders. From what he can tell, he’s considerably taller than her so he knows she won't be able to hold him up all on her own, but he appreciates that she's at least going to try.

She gently helps him to his feet - even though it hurts like a bitch - and places a hand on his middle to help balance him a bit. "I'm afraid if your ribs are cracked I can't let you turn down medication. You could get a chest infection and then who would save us all from corrupt politicians?"

Oh. So she's heard of his work. That must be why she's helping him.

He leaves it, though. That's a conversation best saved for when he can actually breathe without wanting to scream.

They struggle through the balcony door and she softly deposits him on her tiny couch before disappearing to presumably get a first aid kit.

When she returns, she starts tending to his various injuries in silence. She cleans his face – which is covered in sweat, dirt and blood – and tends to his smaller abrasions before turning her attention to the larger cut on his jaw. Even though she doesn’t say a word directly _to_ him, he can still make out some of what she’s muttering under her breath. It’s all really just clicks of her tongue, questions of who did this to him, and mentions that he really should be more careful.

Normally Grant is used to getting scraped up and taking care of his own wounds. So having someone else fuss over him turns out to be way more endearing (seriously, he doesn’t even _know_ her) than Grant thought it would be.

When she's finished, she lets out a sigh and moves on to examining his potential rib injury. He takes this as his opportunity to strike up a conversation.

"So," he starts with a labored breath. "Do you always patch up masked men that fall onto your balcony or am I an exception?"

"Well normally I just let them bleed out and kick their lifeless bodies off the balcony in the morning, but I'm feeling particularly generous tonight." She glances up at him briefly, a smirk on her face.

"I guess it's my lucky night then."

She hums in response and gives his torso a few more pokes – earning a few very unbecoming groans from him – before leaning back and removing her gloves. "Your ribs aren't cracked, just bruised. Painkillers aren’t necessary, though I do recommend them. Additionally, I wouldn't recommend crime fighting for a few days, but I doubt you’ll take that bit of advice."

He sits up a bit on the couch as she gathers all of the first aid materials. "So you know who I am then?" She gives him a half nod, half shrug. Then he asks probably the dumbest question he could think to ask, "And you're not afraid of me?"

Honestly, why would anyone be afraid of him? Besides the fact that the gear he's chosen to wear when he's out performing his vigilante crimes is about as nonthreatening as it gets, he hasn't actually taken down anyone of any value. He's helped put away some petty criminals – mostly white-collar criminals – here and there but no one huge. Yet.

(He's totally planning on putting Deathlok away if he could only just avoid getting the snot beat out of him.)

Still, a grown man in a mask strong-arming crooked businessmen with political aspirations to confess their sins to the public in the middle of the night _might_ frighten some and he just wants to make sure she isn't one of them.

She stops her movements and takes a moment before speaking. "I don't exactly agree with your methods but," she turns to face him. "I can't say I disagree with your results."

Grant has never once needed anyone's approval of his actions. City officials thinks he's a pain in the ass, the media only loves him because he gives them a good story to report and the citizens of the city really don't care as long as he's not directly interfering with them. All of that doesn't matter to him, though. He feels what he's doing is right and that's what important. But for some reason having this nameless woman's support feels sort of good.

Maybe he should have her checked to see if he’s concussed.

"Well," he grunts as he stands from her couch. She walks over to meet him, and now that he's not (severely) hunched over in pain, he can see just how - for lack of a better word - tiny she is. This tiny woman just possibly saved his life. Interesting. "Thank you for the patch up, but I should probably get going. Crime doesn't take a break so neither can I."

It's a lame joke, but she pities him with a giggle so he doesn't feel _that_ stupid for saying it. "I don't suppose you've changed your mind about the pain medication?"

He shakes his head and taps his temple with his index finger. "Can't defeat evil with a foggy mind."

She rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed by his refusal. "Alright tough guy, will you be leaving through the front door or will you be leaving via the balcony?" His eyes dart over to her very destroyed balcony and she sighs. "Right, because scaling down four stories after you've gotten your arse kicked is clearly an intelligent thing to do."

Grant lets out what sounds like a laugh but is really just a strong, quick exhale of air, thanks to his rib injury. He turns to leave and makes it out on the balcony before turning back around.

"Hey, I never got your name," he starts, albeit against his better judgment; the less he attaches himself to this girl, the better.

She hesitates for a moment but eventually answers. "It's Jemma. And I don't suppose I'll be getting your name in return?"

He gives her a wry smile. He's actually smiled quite a bit tonight; it's somewhat alarming. "Thank you, though, for all of your assistance tonight, but I really have to get going." He grabs the railing and before making his way down, glances at her one more time. "See you around, Jemma."

And Grant sincerely hopes he does.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments are always appreciated! :)


End file.
